The Shadow and the Ballerina
by whatsamatta
Summary: He watched her as he always had. She would be his beautiful Ballerina, and he would dance through her although she never knew it. Until now, that is.


_**Disclaimer: How goes it nonexistent readers? Except you Thundercatroar, you're my favorite and if you don't know it you should. Anyway, this is, well, it just is. Hope you actually review it, since nothing irks me more than seeing a whole bunch of traffic and no comments. You jerks. Anyway, truth be told I'm not really sure what this is, but I felt like writing it.**_

HA

He had been there since the beginning.

When most people say that, it usually means the start of a big steaming pile of Bullshit topped with an I-Want-Your-Sex cherry, but for him it was simply the truth. He had, in fact, been there since the beginning. Well, maybe not her _beginning_-beginning, but her beginning. The start of her career – and it was her career and so much more, it was her passion, her life – that was what he had witnessed.

From the day she had entered that studio, he knew she was special. Already way too old to be deemed worth any sort of anything, the instructor decided there was no harm in letting the young woman join her remedial class. Surrounded by little girls in pink tutus, that fourteen year old had never looked more self conscious and out of place, black leotard a dark beacon in the morning light. Some days her outfit and her dark skin seemed to flow into one another, to the point where he couldn't tell one ended and the other began.

He would watch her as she struggled to push her body, so late in the game already as those little girls progressed and passed her time and again. It was almost like the tortoise and the hare, except he knew, just _knew_ that this tale wouldn't end with the slow and steady tortoise winning the race. Her patience would win her a victory, but it was hers, only hers.

And maybe his as well.

He was, well, it was hard to tell just what he was. Just some kid who didn't have the feet for dance, but certainly held the heart. Every day he would visit another studio and watch a group of aspiring ballerinas move like swans as he worked the sound. Sweeping and waxing and washing the room when they had disappeared, erasing scuff marks their slippers may have caused – ushering in a new day. He had been to every class, but when he saw her stretching, a giant among dwarves, he knew he would never watch another class again.

He was fascinated at her self contained struggle, could see the conversations with her mother, her father, her older brothers play out on her face every time she bent her body so far it hurt. Determined to prove them wrong, that her dream and her love could also be her career. They told her she was too old – she didn't have to tell him with words, he could see it in her eyes. Like a bird caught in an oil spill, she forced her movements, willing them to be fluid and graceful. But they always turned out heavy and covered with muck.

She was absolutely beautiful to him.

_**~O~**_

She had been in this class for a few years now, and her patience was wearing thin. Where was her progress? Where was the improvement? That was what her parents had asked for.

"_With Jamie-O in college, and now Gerald too, we can't afford to keep shelling out hundreds of dollars on classes that aren't making you any better._" Her dad had told her one night as he poured over this accounting. No response filled her lips. How do you tell your numbers-worrying father that is wasn't about the money, but how much she enjoyed it? Easy: you don't.

So she just looked down and quietly exited into the hallway.

Her ballet instructors had tried to tell her the same thing, that maybe it was time to find a new hobby before her family went bankrupt. New hobby? Was that what they thought? That dancing was just a hobby to her? How she wished she could explain to them the magic she felt when she slid on those slippers and just let her body move with the music. How free and true to herself she felt. How open. How honest. How real.

Standing in the empty studio, at seventeen and five foot eight, and still in that damn black leotard, she studied her reflection. She wanted to re-evaluate her life, and the best place to do that was in front of the wall-length floor to ceiling mirror. The Mirror of Truth, she like to call it, because when she watched herself in class, she could see how despicable she was compared to all the lovely swans around her.

With the only music in her head, she assumed first position, and began going through the motions. She was tired of being Back Row Ballerina #6. She just wanted to

He watched her positions, but they weren't like before. Something was clouding her focus, and her movements were wrong. He moved towards her, amazed that with no music and eyes closed, she still couldn't sense his approach – but that was alright, he only wanted to help and she would probably bolt if she knew he was there.

Her arms were partially extended as she moved into her first plie`, and suddenly he was there, right behind her, front flush against her back and hands taking hold her hers. She gasped and looked over her shoulder, but was too stunned to move away. He wouldn't – couldn't – look at her directly: his gaze was either on the mirror or on her limbs, but never on her eyes. Slowly he led her through the movements, at first not speaking, but then when he did, his voice was so soft she barely heard.

"_You're holding back. Thinking too much. Stop analyzing and just let the movements come to you._" He was mumbling, but their faces, their throats, were so close he knew she must have heard. She nodded dumbly, and he was convinced that he now held her full attention, just as she had been his sole focus for years. Trying to relax, she moved with his as they progressed from ballet and simply traveled through the music that wasn't real except to them; they could hear it, together, and together they watched themselves in the mirror.

All thoughts left her head as she watched them sway from side to side, his arms guiding her own, wrapping around her and extending out. This was how she wanted to move, what she wanted to feel, to be. No longer a nameless girl in the back, or the one too old to learn anything and too big to achieve it. Now she could finally just be

Somewhere, somehow, the movements had stopped being instructional. He wasn't holding her arms to teach - he was holding her because she felt wonderful. It wasn't sexual, but there was certainly more sensuality then could be missed. And she knew it, as he caught her eyes in the mirror, and then his orbs shifted, and he finally found the courage to look her in the eye. She could feel whatever it was they were sharing, however odd and sudden it was.

He leaned forward, ready to kiss the partially chapped, darkish lips that showed no expression. And she could feel that final _Ah-ha_ moment of identity as he drew closer, even as he uttered one singular, beautiful word, and she knew she could finally be

"_**Timberly**_"

She gasped as his lips covered hers. She felt as if she could almost cry, even though the kiss was chaste and really uneventful. Could cry because she was no longer Back Row Ballerina #6, the tall girl with no talent. _The Knave of Hearts, he stole the tarts_ – she couldn't figure out why that would roll around in her mind with this kiss. His lips were smooth. _The Knave of Hearts_. His hands were large. _He stole the tarts._ He gripped her hands carefully, even though she was so taken he could have managed a grope if the occasion called for it. _And took them quite away._ It suddenly made sense. It suddenly all made perfect sense.

Pulling himself away from her lips, he murmured a small apology before slipping back to the sound system. He caught her glance as she watched, arms wrapped around herself as the mirror mimicked her actions, a small smile on her lips and appreciation in her eyes. He managed a return smile, even smaller than hers, and disappeared out the door. Walking away from the studio, he couldn't help think how much he wanted her. Damn it, he had wanted her before, but now that he had a sample, he knew he would never been happy the rest of his life without her. He wanted her. And that quiet little voice that always finds a way to dash your dreams jumped at the chance to reply.

_Too damn bad._

_**~O~**_

The next time the class met, she wasn't any better, though she wasn't any worse either. But she did smile a lot, and kept her eyes glued to the mirror. Every now and again she would catch smiles, and wouldn't hesitate to send them back, no matter how small or brief. She didn't bother watching the instructor; her real audience would never pay to see her stumble around on stage anyway.

He would never need to.

Ballet had never seemed so beautiful as when she performed it, and he watched. Watched just as he always had.

Since the beginning.

HA


End file.
